


where the lovelight gleams

by moondances



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: ???? i dont know, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Kid Fic, M/M, Mutual Pining, Niall is a Good Friend, Recreational Drug Use, in a sense because it's harry's niece not harry or louis' kid, light smut??? drunk blowjobs???, nick is Here but like.... he's mentioned briefly once, this is 12k of self indulgent christmas fic, ziam are a thing but they're not mentioned much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-17 00:27:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13065339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moondances/pseuds/moondances
Summary: It’s just that he’s so pretty, is all, and Harry’s allowed to dream. He’s not proper dated anyone in years, hasn’t even slept with anyone in months. And he’s got this problem, kind of, where he can’t really stop himself from absolutely falling arse over tit in love with any pretty boy he sees, and Tiny is pretty. Like, pathetically pretty, and Harry’s fucked. He’ll probably never see him again in his life.They are nearing the front of the line quickly, quicker than Harry would like if not for the sole reason that he’s hardly uttered a word. He looks like a damn fool, and he knows it. It’s just that if he opens his mouth, he’ll stutter over every word, or he’ll say something stupid, and like. Silence is better than that, right?-Or, the one where Louis is an elf called Tiny who works in the Christmas Village, Gemma has a daughter called Eve, and Harry is as soft as melted butter.





	where the lovelight gleams

**Author's Note:**

> hiiii!!!! so i haven't written a fic since 2013 when i was a wee sixteen year old baby, and this is my dive back into fic writing. it's pretty self indulgent and definitely wasn't completely brit picked, so sorry for any... americanisms??? anyway, i hope that you enjoy this, please leave a comment if you did, and i hope you all have happy holidays :)
> 
> the title is from i'll be home for christmas

So, as it turns out, London is cold in the middle of November. Of course, it’s not like Harry didn’t already know that, but as he’s backing out of the doorway of his sister’s cozy flat, it’s more obvious than he thinks it’s ever been. The first snow of the season fell the night before, and Harry had quite literally forgotten how to dress for the weather. His hair is tied up in a messy bun, his black jeans have rips all in them, and his sweater, though chunky, is not nearly as insulating as he wants it to be. He doesn’t even think he owns a pair of gloves anymore, lost them in the move from the dorms to his flat over the summer and never bothered making his way to Primark to buy a new pair. Gemma is smiling at him though, handing him a warm travel cup of hot chocolate, nudging him as he walks backwards away from here. Her flat is so warm, and Harry is not at all prepared to trudge out into the fresh snow, and is definitely not prepared to try to keep a three year old proper warm and entertained. He doesn’t even know where to begin.

 

All these years later, and Harry still doesn’t know how Gemma does it. Eve was born in the cold early days of January, so her fourth birthday nears just as quick as the holidays do. Her hair is curly on the top of her head, a dark chocolate brown, a stark contrast to her pale skin, covered in freckles. Her eyes are piercing green, brighter than Harry’s even, and even he knows that’s saying something. Unlike Harry, her dimples are deep on either side of her smile, her cheeks chubby and flushed, eyelashes thick, resting against her cheeks when she closes them. She’s beautiful, is the thing, and it’s kind of hard to stare at her and know someone else’s DNA is in there somewhere other than Gemma’s.

 

The thing is, Gemma never meant to settle down so young, wanted to move to New York City, get a job in fashion, see the world with Harry in tow. Plans changed her sophomore year of college when she met a boy, Christopher, who went by Kit, because Gemma was never the type to settle for average. Harry, being Harry, was apprehensive towards him for months, never trusted him, not fully. Kit had darker hair than Gemma and Harry, his eyes a golden green hue unlike anything Harry had ever seen, and he was tall, taller than Harry, long and fit and absolutely gorgeous, like, why is he not on a runway somewhere type fit. 

 

Harry had been right not to trust him, it seemed, when Gemma announced she was pregnant toward the end of her sophomore year of college, and Kit fucked off to Norway or New Zealand, Harry couldn’t be arsed to remember. And yeah, Gemma never liked average, and Harry didn’t like Kit, but when baby Everly came into the world, three days later than she was meant to, Harry couldn’t be too mad at him anymore, not when he gave them her.

 

So, when a small, mitten-clad hand tugs at the hem of his shirt, Harry smiles, despite himself, the cold London wind whipping at his ears, and, God, he needs earmuffs. He bends down, swiftly gathering Everly into his arms, propping her on his hips. His smile is dopey, lazy, reserved all for her, and she returns it, dimples and apple-tinted cheeks, ringlets of curls spilling out from under her red beanie. And it’s like, Harry could never tell her no. So when they’ve hugged Gemma and said goodbye (three times for good measure, because nobody really ever wants her to go to work), and Eve quips, “Take me to the mall,” Harry’s a bit baffled because wow, straight forward. 

 

With a laugh, he adjusts her on his hip, making a playful noise in the back of his throat, “Please?” He’s quick, firing right back at her, because she’s a Styles, she’s got Gemma at bed and Harry during the day, and Anne when the others are busy, so she’s fine with the banter, has got a bit of an attitude, really, if he’s honest. He’s probably not helping, but what can he do at this point?

 

She huffs at him, plain and simple, unwraps her arms from his neck, crossing them in front of her chest, and Harry does his best to frown back at her before breaking out into a grin. “What’s at the mall?”

 

“Dunno,” her voice is quiet, but it’s excited underneath it all.

 

He doesn’t know what she’s playing at, but he can’t tell her no, can’t really object. So, without much of his own consent, he speaks out an, “Okay, sure,” before heading in the direction of the mall.

 

They pass the warm cup of cocoa back and forth as they walk through the busy streets of London. People have bags upon bags in their hands, snow has started falling again, and it’s just… it’s cheery, is the thing, and it has Harry a little bit giddy.

 

They make it to the mall quicker than they might have on a normal day, Harry walking briskly to get them out of the cold. 

 

The sight they’re met with is nothing unexpected, but it’s nothing short of beautiful either. The ceiling of the mall is neatly covered in twinkling white fairy lights. A Christmas tree that stretches up past the second floor is covered in the same white twinkling lights, red ornaments meticulously placed on the branches. Harry can’t help but think he would like that job, decorating the mall for the holidays.

 

The smells of coffee and hot chocolate and peppermint float through the large building, and it makes him hum. 

 

He sets Eve down, but takes her hand immediately, and they start walking towards a cookie shop. She points at one with an icing-painted snowflake on it, so Harry buys two of them, and he gets them a drink to share. It’s when he turns around, he’s struck with The Idea of The Year. His smile brightens.

 

There, in the center of the mall, is another large Christmas tree, and an entire Christmas village. There is a long red carpet that leads up to the entrance, along the way it is lined with candy canes and smaller christmas trees. A large golden arch marks the entrance, and many elves are speaking to people in line. Under the large tree are red and green packages, far too large to be anything, really, but they’re pretty. There’s two fake reindeer beside the tree, fake snow dusting everything. Sitting in the center, is a large red throne, and perched on the chair is a man with rosy red cheeks and a beard that’s at least a foot long (and definitely fake). 

 

“Let’s have your picture taken for mummy, yeah?” Harry asks, not really waiting for a response before they begin walking towards the line. 

 

Frank Sinatra is crooning over the speakers. He can’t help himself when he starts to sing along under his breath, the line moving rather quickly. “ _ Have yourself a merry little _ \--”

 

“Hello!” A chipper voice squeaks at the two of them, and it takes Harry a moment to remember that he needs to breathe because before him stands quite possibly the most beautiful man he’s ever seen. And he’s dressed like an elf, so.

 

His eyes are the brightest blue he’s ever seen, his hair tucked under a tiny elf hat is noticeably caramel tinted, freckles dust his cheeks, and his eyelashes are, like, inches long, he thinks. His cheeks are tinted a pretty rosy pink, and that… That might be makeup, but it looks real. His ears are pointy and small, but Harry figures that’s at least half due to the uniform he’s wearing. Which, is, unfortunately for Harry, a very tight pair of green leggings, and a long green shirt, striped red across his chest. His shoes are far too chunky, striped with red and green, and on the tip of the curly toe is a big jingle bell. And somehow he looks good in it. Right. He should probably say hello.

 

When he comes to, he’s shocked to hear Eve saying, “Do you really know Santa?” 

 

“Oh, of course I do, love,” he smiles at her, crouching down enough to be her height. Harry’s gone, just a puddle left where he was previously standing. “All of us elves know Santa.”

 

“Wow,” she breathes, all shock and happiness.

 

Harry’s eyes dart between the Pretty Elf Boy and Eve, and it’s like he can’t even open his mouth to say anything. Not a damn word, his three year old niece is out-charming him, and there’s not a damn thing Harry can do about it.

 

They must have continued to talk, because when Harry finally opens his mouth, he’s met with the slightest of smirks, and it shoots right through him. Fuck.

 

He had hoped he hadn’t been so obviously off in another world, but the way the boy’s eyes linger on him tells him otherwise. He closes his mouth after a moment, and opens it again. Christ. It’s been too long now, and Harry’s about to just give up, not even open his mouth until ––

 

“Uncle Hazza.” 

 

He’s quick, probably too quick, to open his mouth, “Yes?” 

 

She motions for him to lean down, so he does. Her tiny hands cup around his ear and she whispers harshly into it, “Say hi to Tiny.”

 

And, well, fuck. It must have been obvious then, if even Eve had noticed. But that –– what? What the fuck did she just say?

 

“Tiny?” He turns to face her now, eyes lighting up with amusement.

 

“Yes,” she nods, pointing toward the Pretty Elf Boy. Or. Um. Tiny?

 

A little bit of the embarrassment fades at that. Tiny the Elf. He bites his lips around a smile, slowly standing back up to meet the eyes of the boy. “Tiny the Elf?”

 

The smaller boy looks sheepish, then, but it’s quickly recovered with a bright smile and a quick nod. “Yes, at your service.”

 

Alright. Tiny the Elf. Harry can deal with that. Absolutely he can.

 

“This is my Uncle Hazza,” comes Eve’s voice, making Harry realize he hasn’t said anything back.

 

“Right, hello,” he smiles then, as best as he can. His skin is hot, but he’s not blushing. All of the people walking around and Christmas lights are making the mall hot. He is not blushing.

 

“Hello, Uncle Hazza,” Tiny says, and Harry can hear the smirk on his lips, would know it was there if he wasn’t looking at him right in the face. Baby steps.

 

It’s just that he’s so pretty, is all, and Harry’s allowed to dream. He’s not proper dated anyone in years, hasn’t even slept with anyone in months. And he’s got this problem, kind of, where he can’t really stop himself from absolutely falling arse over tit in love with any pretty boy he sees, and Tiny is pretty. Like, pathetically pretty, and Harry’s fucked. He’ll probably never see him again in his life.

 

They are nearing the front of the line quickly, quicker than Harry would like if not for the sole reason that he’s hardly uttered a word. He looks like a damn fool, and he knows it. It’s just that if he opens his mouth, he’ll stutter over every word, or he’ll say something stupid, and like. Silence is better than that, right?

 

“Uncle Hazza,” Eve tugs on his coat, frowning up at him. 

 

“S’wrong, love?” He turns his attention back to her, and that’s easier. It’s easier to talk to her.

 

“You’re ignoring me.”

 

Christ. She’s attentive. Of course she is. It’s only seconds later that he’s got her propped back up on his hip. “Your hair’s a bit messed up. Maybe if you ask nicely, Tiny will fix it for you?” And Harry could do it with his eyes closed, but this way he’s talking to Tiny without really having to.

 

Tiny snorts from his place before stepping forward, eyes warm when he gets eye-level with Eve. 

 

“Will you please fix my hair?”

 

“What good manners you’ve got,” he smiles at her like he’s genuinely proud. That’s. That’s a lot. It sends warmth straight to Harry’s belly. He’s good with kids, no wonder he’s cool with dressing up like an elf for a month and a half. “I’ll have to put a good word for you in with Santa,” he shoots a wink at her, and she giggles.

 

“Oh, please, could you please? I want a horse, but mummy says one won’t fit in the flat.”

 

“It’s true,” Harry finally opens his mouth like a human fucking being. “It’s all she’s asked for. We’ve all told her there’s probably not much room for a horse in her mum’s flat.”

 

Eve huffs out a noise of protest. “There  _ is _ room, Hazza.”

 

His gaze flicks between her, Tiny, and the floor. “Sorry, babe, m’afraid there’s not.”

 

“You’re next, anyway, maybe you can tell Santa yourself?” Tiny’s eyes glisten, they fucking glisten, and like, Christ, Harry knows it’s been awhile since he’s been laid, but like. He’s beautiful. And Harry’s cliche. And a romantic. You know, love at first sight and all that.

 

“We’re next?” The words should probably come from Eve, but they don’t, of course not, because Harry is nothing if not embarrassing. 

 

Tiny’s lips quirk up, and he diverts his eyes towards Harry. “You are.”

 

Next. They’re next, and he doesn’t even know his name. Well. His real name.

 

Unless his name is Tiny, which, okay. Probably not.

 

After that, it feels like five minutes pass before Tiny is walking them out of the Village, showing them where to pick up the copies of their pictures. Harry can’t bring himself to walk around the mall any longer, so he smiles his best smile, dimples and all, and says they’ll be back.

 

Tiny leans down and whispers something in Eve’s ear which evokes a sweet giggle from her.

 

And Harry is not jealous. Not at all. Totally not jealous of his three year old niece. 

 

“Thanks for keeping her entertained,” Harry speaks in the other boy’s direction.

 

That’s my job, he can hear the words dripping off of his tongue, but instead, “It’s always a pleasure to talk to the little ones on the nice list.” 

 

He looks up at Harry, (fucking up at him, proper has to tilt his head), and winks. Right. Time to go.

 

“Thanks,” he repeats, because every other word seems to have fled his brain. There’s nothing else in there.

 

Eve tugs at his hand. Right. Walking, that’s what he’s supposed to be doing.

 

Right foot, left foot, right, left, right, left.

 

* * *

 

 

Louis has just finished up one of his final projects when Zayn bursts through his door. “What the fuck was with the flirting at the mall today?”

 

Flirting..? At the mall today? Sure, there was the older woman with her son that he gave some compliments of sorts to, but that was only to get her to buy the ultimate pack of pictures. The one that comes with magnets and keychains, the whole lot. And there was the young couple, probably no older than sixteen, sure that this would be their first Christmas card of many, that he talked to for a while just to see how he thought it would play out (because obviously, Louis is the king of relationships).

 

But flirting? He can’t remember blatantly flirting with anyone.

 

“Curly boy?” Zayn quips, his eyebrows halfway to Mars.

 

Oh. Right. He hadn’t… Surely he hadn’t been obvious.

 

“I was not flirting,” his tone is flat, but his arms crossed in front of his chest are a bit more defensive than he’d like for them to be. 

 

“Lou,” his voice is soft.

 

The thing with Zayn is that he’s known him forever, it feels like. Louis grew up in Doncaster, but met Zayn the day he moved to London for university. He was studying cinematic arts and theatre, where Zayn was studying film and photography. Naturally, their paths crossed, and it was (definitely not) an instantaneous friendship. Funny that, they actually hated each other on day one. Louis was sure that Zayn was pretentious, out to point out all of his flaws. It wasn’t until the second class meeting where the two boys were partnered together for a project that they realized they were far more alike than they were different. Since then, they have been inseparable.

 

Since their first year of university, the two boys have kept similar work schedules, and this is the second year they’ve worked together at the Village in the mall. Of course, Zayn had found it appropriate the year before last to give Louis the elf name of Tiny. (To which Louis had protested that Zayn was just as small as he was, if not smaller. Zayn had just waved his arms around, murmuring something along the lines of “it’s your aura, Lou,”). 

 

They’d been ecstatic to see the openings on the mall’s website, searching for full-time elves, and an experienced photographer. So, when the season rolled around again this year, they couldn’t say no when asked to return, because being Tiny the Elf really isn’t the worst job Louis has had; in fact, it may very well be his favorite.

 

Of course, come January, he will find himself back at the children’s theatre, which is easily his second favorite job.

 

It takes him a moment to realize he’s been fumbling with his fingers instead of replying to Zayn, and that can’t possibly help his case. “I don’t even know his name, the girl he was with kept calling him Hazza.”

 

“You could have just looked his name up after he ordered pictures, mate,” and maybe that makes sense now, but Louis isn’t a stalker, right, he’s not, so he definitely didn’t do that. 

 

He waves his hands in front of his face, uncrossing his arms and falling back on his bed with a sigh. “I wasn’t even flirting,  _ Zaynie _ ,” he smiles up at the ceiling, voice playful, “You know you’re the only one for me.”

 

“Shut up, seriously,” Zayn gags, still standing in the doorway, one leg crossed in front of the other and a hand on his hips. “You never talk to customers for that long.”

 

“I didn’t ––” He has to pause then, because, did he? He’s just good at customer service, likes playing the part, and the little girl beside Curly, or Hazza, or whatever his name is, was the best age, so happy to be talking to one of Santa’s elves. “The girl he was with. The little one, she reminded me of my sisters.” Good answer.

 

Zayn just blinks at him. “That’s really the best you could come up with?”

 

Reaching behind him, Louis fumbles around until he finds a pillow, tosses it towards the door, and barely misses Zayn. “If you don’t leave me alone, I’ll actually hit you next time.”

 

“Too bad,” the other, equally as tiny, boy drawls, slow and dramatic, “Guess I’ll have to eat all the Chinese I ordered by myself.” It takes all of Louis’ effort to not shoot his head up to meet Zayn’s gaze. “Can’t believe m’gonna have to smoke alone, too. Selfish, Lou.”

 

He turns on his heels and shuts the door behind him.

 

It takes Louis fifteen minutes to muster up the energy to meet him in the living room, plucking the joint out of his fingers. “Thanks.”

 

Hours later, when Louis is comfortably high, well fed, and the thunder is rolling low in the distance, he finds himself on Instagram, searching through everyone he knows following list. 

 

If Zayn asks, he’s just looking for some new people to follow (regardless of how big of a lie that would be, Louis never follows anyone, can’t stand the thought of following more than one hundred fifty people at a time –– there’s an  _ art _ to ratios, Zayn, he’d say). 

 

His eyes wander to the glow in the dark stars on his ceiling, and he lets out a sigh. He’ll never see Curly again, probably, and Christ knows Curly probably wouldn’t want to see him anyway. Elf ears. God, what kind of a uniform? 

 

Except that’s a lie. Louis knows damn well he’s cute in his ears and hat, and not just because Zayn said so the first day when he’d frowned at himself in the mirror.

 

And the boy wasn’t even that cute. Not even with the curls that spilled out of his bun and the bright green in his eyes. Louis thinks he might even remember a dimple. (People really have those?)

 

Except that’s a lie, too. 

 

He’s just. Anything to not regret looking up his number, or even his last name, on the system before it was too late.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s not unusual that the bar has karaoke nights. It’s not even unusual that a lot of people show up to the karaoke nights. It is, however, unusual that a group of boys dressed up like elves flaunt themselves around on stage, beer in one hand, microphone in the other.

 

They’re loud, and Harry’s head is pounding, but there’s not much he can do about it. His shift was barely halfway through, and the only thing keeping him going was the thought of the tips he’d receive. 

 

Standing behind the bar, his view is restricted, but there’s at least four boys on stage, each of them decked in a long shirt, tight leggings resting underneath. A hat rests on top of each of their heads, but sticking out from under the hat are pointy ears.

 

Pointy ears… The same pointy ears that have been haunting him for the last two days.

 

And the leggings. The tight green leggings. There’s no way this is actually his real life, and he might start crying when  a familiar voice slurs into the microphone, “ _ Think of all the fun I’ve missed, think of all the fellas that I haven’t kissed _ ”. It’s torture, is what it is. His voice is smooth, dripping in honey, sweet and soft, and he’s going to go crazy.

 

It’s with all of his willpower that he forces himself to turn around back to the customers at the bar. He’s met with Niall’s grinning face. “Hey, mate!”

 

Deep breaths. “Niall, hi.”

 

“Alright?”

 

Is he? This is probably pathetic, honestly. He only knows the boy as Tiny, only knows his eyes are blue, and his ears probably aren’t really pointy. He also knows he’s loud, and he’s sloppy when he’s drunk, and he’s good with kids. But he doesn’t know him. He hears him and his friends laughing on stage, bringing him back to Niall. He shrugs, throwing his best smile in the blonde boy’s direction. “‘Course I’m alright. You okay?”

 

“I’m fine,” he starts, slow and careful, hs eyes focusing on the alcohol lined up behind the bar. “You seem distracted is all. Don’t have my drink ready like usual.”

 

And it is a Friday. He should have expected Niall to show up. He always does, comes right after his shift at the Starbucks in the mall. He had been distracted, though, is the thing. Niall is right.

 

“Sorry, long day, let me get it.”

 

It wasn’t a total lie. He is finished with school, but has been helping Gemma with Eve during the days before he heads off to the bar in the evening. This morning, however, he had overslept, and wasn’t able to stop by the coffee shop near her flat and pick up his usual tea (with some milk and sugar, and in the winter a bit of mint, because he’s festive). When he finally made his way to Gemma’s, she was in a fuss about how he needed to be responsible, how he needed a real alarm clock, maybe a car, or a job that didn’t keep him up until the early hours of the mornings. 

 

But, then he was greeted by dimpled cheeks and freckles, and things were fine for a few hours.

 

Until he only had an hour to feed himself, shower, and get to work. Not to mention the sight he had been met with when he’d walked with –– a very angry boss, three obviously underaged kids, and a bartender full of shame.

 

Nothing about today has been easy.

 

It’s only natural, then, that on the stage is Tiny the Elf and three of his other elf friends. He’s too sober for this. His t-shirt is tight around his neck, and he’s tired, and he wants to go home.

 

When he turns back to Niall, it’s with two drinks in his hands. One, an Irish coffee, made just the way the boy orders it when he goes home, and the second, a bright red cocktail.

 

“Try this, would you?” He pushes the drink forward, licking over his lips. “M’trying to get the Christmas drinks perfected. Looked for recipes online, but I want them to be good when people start ordering them.”

 

“Oh, so I’m a guinea pig for you now?” 

 

“Always,” Harry’s grin is bright, ear-to-ear, proud. Since he met Niall his freshman year of university, the two have been inseparable. And, since he started bartending sophomore year, Niall has tried all of his drinks. (Even the fruity ones, which Harry knows Niall likes the best, even if he denies it, swears on his grave that a classic Guinness is his favorite.)

 

If there’s one drink Niall likes as much as he claims to like beer, it’s vodka. So, Harry’s not surprised when the cocktail goes over well. It’s the bar’s vodka of choice, cranberry, lime, and cherries for adornment.

A satisfied smile spreads over Niall’s lips quicker than he can deny it, and Harry himself lights up like a Christmas tree. “Oh!” He squeaks, “Is it good, then?”

“How do you always do this?” It won’t be long before Niall’s slurring over at him, reaching across the bar with grabby hands, making kissy faces up at him.

 

“Magic,” he murmurs, leaning in to press a wet kiss to his flushed cheek. “And a little help from my dear friend, the Internet.”

A loud noise stops Niall dead in his tracks when he opens his mouth to speak, and Harry’s eyes dart around the bar to find the source of the noise.

Of course.

There’s Tiny, frozen in place, feet away from the bar. A flush is high on his cheeks, and there’s some sort of mixed drink spilt down the front of what Harry can only assume is his uniform.

“Have you gone mental, Stan?!” His voice is shrill, loud, and okay, that’s a change from the boy at the mall.

“I didn’t mean––”

“I’ve got work tomorrow, I don’t fucking care what you meant to do,” he’s causing a scene now, and Harry knows he should intervene, should tell the boys to calm down, but he can’t bring himself from behind the bar.

Then Tiny is wobbling, his bottom lip jutting out into a pout. It’s almost funny when he speaks next, his voice high and whiny, “I can’t wear a fucking gin stained shirt to the North Pole, you arse.”

He’s still pouting, and Harry wants to kiss him. He needs to get laid, absolutely, a week ago probably.

-

He should not be this upset, but with Stan looking at him like that, he can’t help it. It’s not like he can’t just wash the uniform, right, but right now, he’s drunk, and he’s sad, and he wants to leave. Or hit Stan in the face.

 

He takes a deep breath instead.

 

His vision is blurry, and he thinks if he moves too fast right now, he’ll fall down. He reeks of gin and beer, and he has to be at work by noon. He’ll need a shower (or two), but he can’t even imagine leaving this bar right now.

 

He thinks if he tries to leave, he’ll get lost, anyway. Can’t really be arsed to call a taxi, so. Stay it is.

 

Until Stan is grabbing his hand, sighing loudly. “I’ve called us a taxi, Lou, so get it together. I’ll wash your fucking uniform.”

 

“I––”

 

“Stop talking.”

 

“Let me go, then.”

 

“No. You’re staying here.”

 

He doesn’t listen, turns quick on his heels, and starts to head towards the bar for another drink. He makes it six steps before there’s a hand on his hip, steadying him. He’s slower with his movements now, turning his head to be meet with Niall’s bright eyes. Niall who will help him get a drink. Niall who knows exactly how he likes his coffees in the morning. Beautiful, lovely, kind Niall.

 

“You need to stay with Stan, mate.”

 

Fuck Niall.

 

“I  _ trusted _ you,” He pouts again, slumping his shoulders and taking a step back from Niall.

 

The other boy huffs out a laugh and pulls Louis into a hug. “You reek, man, you need to get home.”

 

“I don’t  _ want _ to go home,” he knows he’s getting loud again, knows that his eyes wide. His eyebrows are pulled together, and he crosses his arms over his chest.

 

“Too bad.” 

 

Then, Stan’s hand is on his lower back, and the other two boys they came with are next to them, and he’s being whisked away from the-world’s-newest-traitor Niall.

 

He thinks someone tells him the cab is here, but he can’t hear them over the blood rushing in his ears. Can’t think about anything except trying to keep the contents of his stomach in his stomach because, wow, moving, yeah. Not fun. Everything is spinning.

 

He must black out in the car because the next thing he knows is that he’s in his bed, alone, and he doesn’t smell like alcohol anymore, more so like an actual human with a hint of smoke. So. He showered at some point, then.

 

Because Louis doesn’t completely hate himself, he pops two pain killers in his mouth and drinks half a glass of water before he falls back asleep, curling into his cold duvet.

 

When the sun starts to filter through the dark blue curtains in his bedroom, his head is pounding, and his stomach is swirling. He can’t bring himself to get out of bed, but it’s with not much time to spare that he realizes he’s about to puke up the remains of the evening.

 

He shuffles to the bathroom and holds his head over the toilet for ten minutes before he thinks his stomach has settled enough, and he turns the water on in his shower.

 

He can’t remember if Stan helped him shower or not, can’t remember anything between the cab and his bed, but he thinks it’s a safe bet to take another. He rids himself of his pants, holds his fingers under the water until it’s hot enough, and stands under the stream for a solid few minutes before moving to actually wash his hair.

 

The water is nice, warm on his sore muscles. The steam billows above him and out into the bathroom. 

 

As he climbs out of the shower and gets himself dressed for work, his mind drifts to the boy who’d been at the mall the other day, and he can’t help but still be filled with regret. It’s ridiculous, and the boy probably doesn’t even remember who he is. 

 

Except that it’s been a long time, like, a really long time since Louis has dated anyone. It’s even been a long time since he’s kissed anyone, but. Technicalities.

 

That’s all. That’s the only reason he can’t get him out of his head. He’ll just have to ignore him. He’ll probably never see him again.

 

Later that day, when he’s twenty minutes away from his shift, he’s sitting outside the building with Zayn. He inhales the smoke from his cigarette slowly. He sighs, letting the air around him fill with smoke. He feels a bit stupid, standing outside, dressed in his uniform, his shoes jingling with every step he takes, but oh well.

 

He puts the cigarette out on the ground, telling Zayn he’ll be there when he is due to clock in, and no, he won’t still smell like smoke. And yes, he will bring him his coffee.

 

Of course, when he gets to the Starbucks just across from the Village on the bottom floor of the mall, he’s met with Niall’s smiling face and two already prepared coffees. (Zayn gets a black coffee with milk and sugar,  _ because if you add too much it’s not even a coffee anymore _ , he likes to tell him. Maybe that’s because Louis’ is a grande, fat-free iced caramel macchiato, upside down, with extra caramel. And almond milk. Because he’s making steps to being healthy or whatever, alright. Plus, milk is gross. And because it’s fun to watch Niall suffer.)

 

“Louis, light of my life,” Niall sings at him from behind the counter. 

 

“Niall, the only person who loves me enough to make me my coffee,” he mocks his tone, fumbling around in the inner pocket of his uniform for the little bottle of cologne. Spending the day with children doesn’t exactly scream “show up to work smelling like smoke” if he wants to keep his job.

 

“How are you feeling this morning? You were pretty rough last night when I saw you last,” a smirk teases the corners of Niall’s lips, and Louis groans, shaking his head.

 

“Don’t remind me. I blacked out on the way home, can’t remember anything between that and waking up with the world’s worst headache in the middle of the night.”

 

“Fuck.”

  
“You’re telling me. At least my still-drunk self loved me enough to take some medicine before I fell back asleep.”

 

“Could have been worse, at least you weren’t up all night puking,” and yeah, fair point. 

 

“I might have been, I don’t know. Stan took me home, showered me, I guess. Got me in bed, but I don’t know if I puked before all that,” which, fair point again.

 

“You at least get laid?” 

 

“Niall,” he gasps, shaking his head and sighing, “No, but it’s fine. I’m alive.”

 

“Yeah, well, I know someone ––” He stops then, turning his whole body towards the front of the store, the smile on his face doubling. “Harry!”

 

So. He sees him again. And his name is Harry.

 

* * *

 

 

The air is bitter on Harry’s skin, his cheeks nose bright red as he walks down the streets of London. He’s been sent on a mission by Niall to find some alcohol for Friday night. 

 

He’s made a slight detour, though, has picked up lunch for the both of them, and is on his way to take it to him at work. 

 

The Starbucks in the mall is always busy, and of course Harry knows the prospect of seeing Tiny the Elf is possible, but he doesn’t really entertain the idea that it will actually happen. 

 

That is, until he’s walking to Starbucks, and there at the counter, stands the boy himself, cheeks a pretty pink color, lips chapped from the cold. It’s quick and it’s fletting, the feeling Harry gets when he sees them, but he kind of wishes he could just melt into the floor rather than have to acknowledge the situation at hand.

 

“Harry!” Niall’s voice meets his ears with a hint of surprise. So. He won’t be turning the other direction then.

 

He smiles at him, walking all the way into the shop. 

 

“I’ve gotta get back to work, see you later, Niall!” 

 

And then he’s gone, and really, Harry shouldn’t even be upset that he hasn’t acknowledged him any times they’ve seen each other since the afternoon in the line.

 

It’s all a bit frustrating. He just wants to know his name, and maybe that would make him feel better. Or maybe he could see him without his pointy ears. 

 

And if he could go a single day without hearing his jingle bell shoes in the back of his mind, that would be great.

 

“I brought lunch,” is what he finally says to Niall when he reaches the counter.

 

“The love of my life,” Niall grins at him, reaching for the bag in Harry’s hands.

 

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

 

So, Harry doesn’t stand a chance, it seems. The boy hadn’t even spared him a glance, definitely didn’t act like he knew who he was. 

 

He’s just going to have to forget about him.

 

“Do you know him?” Except it seems that his brain is working against him.

 

Niall’s lips quirk up. “Who, Louis?”

 

Louis. His name is Louis? His name is Louis. “Uh, is that Tiny?”

 

The laugh bubbles up and out of Niall, and Harry really wishes he had a shell to go back into. Like a turtle. He wishes he was a turtle. “Yeah, ‘s Tiny the Elf for you. His mate, Zayn, gave him that name.”

 

“It’s fitting,” and, Jesus, brain and mouth, not working together. Cool. “Tiny. He is. Small. Short, I mean. He’s short.” That turtle shell is sounding better and better.

 

“Smooth,” Niall looks like he wants to laugh, but he’s trying to fight it, biting at the corner of his lip. “Hey, you think he’d want to come by the party on Friday?”

 

“Niall, I swear to God.”

 

“Think I’ll go ask him when I get off.”

 

“Do not.”

 

“He’s a hoot and a holler at parties, you’ll love him.”

 

“A hoot and a holler?” How old is Niall, again? Eighty? 

 

“Shut up, at least I can get laid,” he fires back at him, quick and prepared. 

 

“I could. I just don’t,” and he’s not defensive about it. He is not. 

 

“Sure, mate.”

 

“Fuck off, would you? I’m leaving now, enjoy your lunch,” Harry pretends to be annoyed, turns to walk out of the coffee shop, and then turns back to him, a soft smile playing at his mouth. “I love you.”

 

“Don’t forget to get my beer.”

 

“Could never, love you!” He repeats, taking a few steps before calling over his shoulder, “If you invite him, I’ll kick your ass.”

 

* * *

 

 

“So, it’s Friday at ten, and you have to come, or I’ll give you dairy milk instead of almond milk and not tell you.”

 

“Rude.” He’s hardly had time to catch his breath, and his fingers are itching for a cigarette, but Niall caught him before he could run off. He loves him, he does, but he wants to  _ go _ . “If I do come, what’s in it for me?”

 

“Um, me? The best drinks you’ll ever have? Some kick ass cookies?” The end of every sentence goes up in pitch, and it’s hard to fight off the smile threatening to show.

 

“Don’t know if that’s promising enough.”

 

“C’mon, please. Like, all of my friends are pretty. And gay. Because of my roommate, but,” He trails off, waving his hands around in front of his face, “Doesn’t matter, come on, you’ve got to come.”

 

It’s hard to decide between the nothing he had planned to do Friday and spending the night with a bunch of people he doesn’t know, but with Niall frowning at him, eyes comically wide, it’s hard to say no.

 

“If you can promise me mistletoe, I’ll be there.”

 

Niall’s face explodes into a smile twice the size of the Sun, then, and Louis feels a sense of pride that he made him make that face. He smiles back. “There will be mistletoe, duh,” he says like it’s not even a question, “I do know how to throw a party.”

 

“I don’t doubt you.” He’s half tempted to change his mind, half tempted to buy himself a bottle of strawberry champagne and sit on his couch and binge watch some sitcom from the nineties that he’s seen at least three times, but his mouth opens before his brain catches up, and –– “I’ll be there.”

 

“Great,” he says, his words dripping with sugar as he starts to walk backwards, finally leaving Louis to go change out of his uniform, but not before he spills out, “It’s a costume party, so come dressed up. Zayn, too.” 

 

And then he’s gone, and fuck. Of course it’s a costume party.

 

-

 

The week comes and goes faster than Harry wants it to, and suddenly, it’s Friday. He’s hardly had time to come up with a costume, but was free from babysitting Eve today, so he found himself at a holiday shop early in the morning. As the time nears nine o’clock, Harry has just gotten out of the shower, smells like vanilla and peppermint, and he’s looking at himself in the mirror.

 

He brushes his teeth just in case, though he’s not got much hope that he’ll actually be kissing anyone tonight. He lets his hair air dry while he makes his way through his and Niall’s flat, cleaning up the bits and pieces they missed when they cleaned this morning. The island is set up like a buffet, salad fixings, pigs in a blanket, fruit, vegetables, cookies, and because it wouldn’t be a party at Niall’s and Harry’s, three different flavors of sangria, and four bottles of wine. An ice chest sits on the floor full of the different beers of Niall’s choice, and the bar in the kitchen is stacked with different glasses, alcohols, and mix-ins. And really, they’re probably the best hosts around. 

 

He has never claimed to be humble.

 

Niall comes up behind him, taps him on the shoulder, and when Harry turns around, he’s stunned. He barks out a laugh, claps a hand over his mouth, and backs himself up into the counter. “What the fuck are you wearing?”

 

It’s a pair of red fleece sweats, a bright red t-shirt, a black belt, and a bad, obviously cheap white beard.

 

“I’m Santa.”

 

“You’re the One Pound Shop Santa at best, mate.”

 

“Wait, let me get my hat.”

 

He’s not left waiting for long, and is not disappointed when Niall saunters back into the kitchen.

 

It’s a Santa hat, furry around the bottom, and there’s a big, fluffy ball on the top of it, but on the side are two cup holders with long straws that come down to his mouth, and he’s holding onto them with his teeth, the corners of his eyes turned up in a smile. When he speaks, his words are muffled around the straws, “Just need a drink now.”

 

“That is… This is a lot, even for you,” Harry laughs, shaking his head and stepping forward to mess around with the hat, situating it better on Niall’s head. “I love it.”

 

“Thank you,” he actually sounds proud which makes it ten times better, and then, “Where’s your costume, then?”

 

“Give me a few.”

 

He skips down the hall to his bedroom, shuts the door, and goes to the foot of his bed where his jeans are sitting. He’s picked out the tightest, whitest pair of skinnies he owns, and his shirt is a baggy, thin, white t-shirt. At the holiday shop, he found a golden halo headband and a pair of golden wings, and it’s simple, but it’s enough, he thinks, for it to count as a costume. 

 

After he slides himself into the clothes, he grabs the wings and headband and heads to the bathroom. 

 

It’s not always that Harry wears makeup, and it’s even less often that he wears glitter, but an occasion is an occasion. His fingers spread a golden dust across his cheekbones, and he reaches for some iridescent glitter. He carefully places the glitter on the high point of his cheeks and across his collarbones, and can’t help but smile at himself in the mirror. It’s not complete without a layer of pink, shiny lipgloss, and as he closes the tube and puts it back in the drawer, he nods to himself, satisfied.

 

He’s careful as he walks through the hallway, making sure not to bump his wings on the walls. A whistle comes from the kitchen, and even though he knows it’s Niall, he still flushes.

 

“You look so good, even  _ I _ would kiss you right now.”

 

“Thank you, I think,” he scrunches his nose up, a sweet smile resting on his face. He leans against the counter, and looks around the flat for the clock they don’t have. Why don’t they have a clock? They’ve lived here for a year now. “Why don’t we have a clock?”

 

“Don’t need one. We have phones, don’t we?”

 

“I need one.”

 

“Okay. Merry Christmas, I’ll get you a clock.”

 

He nods at that. “A clock and some socks.”

 

“Anything for you, my dear Harold.”

 

People will start showing up any minute now, Harry knows this, and he knows he should begin preparing drinks, or at least one for himself, but he’s basking in the last moments of silence. He’s not completely naive, and he’s not in denial either. He’s going to be hungover tomorrow, so best to enjoy the last few hours of life as he knows it, which means appreciating the quiet flat and lack of a headache.

 

Despite knowing it was minutes away from ten, he still startles when there’s a knock at the door. Niall, ever the host as always, is quick to let the first guests in, and Harry starts on his first drink. It’s the same one he made for Niall at the bar the other night, vodka with cranberry and lime, and a cherry for looks. He’s about to have a little whipped cream from the can, but stops himself because he does have manners, thank you.

 

It’s when he barely catches a drip of the red drink from falling off of his chin that he realizes a completely white outfit may not have been the best choice.

 

Oh, well.

 

Too late now.

 

He’s just finished his first drink and handed out another one when he hears it.

 

Jingle bells. No. Nope.

 

Maybe somebody else’s costume has jingle bells on it, maybe he’s hearing things, maybe Niall turned the music up louder, maybe ––

 

“Louis!” Niall’s voice is loud, louder than all the people and the music combined, and Harry really, really wishes he had a turtle shell. But maybe it’s another Louis. Maybe today, someone is looking down on him and saying, “sorry, we know you’ve had it bad, so here’s one of the other million Louis’ in England,” but then ––

 

“Nialler!” The hopefully-not-Tiny-the-Elf-Louis yells back, twice as loud as Niall. 

 

Nobody is looking down on him. If they are, they’re laughing, fucking rolling, because Harry’s life is a joke. This is a joke, honestly. It couldn’t get any worse that he has to spend the evening knowing that Tin- Louis is here. In his flat. It could not get worse.

 

“You know my friend, Harry, don’t you, Lou?”

 

Right. So apparently it can get worse.

 

Niall, Louis, and two other boys are standing in front of him on the other side of the bar in the kitchen, and Harry’s skin is red from his cheeks down to his collarbones. 

 

* * *

 

 

Somehow, the thought that Harry and Niall were flatmates hadn’t even crossed Louis’ mind, not really. Not until he is standing right in front of Harry.

 

Harry who is wearing makeup. Fucking  _ glitter _ . And he’s got on wings. Louis might faint, or hit Niall in the face, something, anything, because he’s not, never, a single day in his life, wanted to kiss someone so badly. His eyes completely disobey his brain’s orders to  _ please look Harry in the eyes, do not look at his lips, that is rude, be decent _ , because Harry is wearing lipgloss. What movie is he living in? He’s pretty sure he’s had this exact wet dream before. Christ.

 

And, oh, Niall is speaking to him. 

 

“Yeah,” his voice catches in his throat, and fuck his voice, too. Along with his traitor brain. “Yeah, I met him at work a few weeks ago.” This would be significantly easier if he had a drink in him, but such is life.

 

“So, Harry, this is Zayn,” he can hear Niall speaking, but he sounds like he’s in a fishbowl. He wants, though, wants to reach out and touch his collarbones, trail the glitter down the front of his chest, lay him out flat on his bed, careful not to damage the wings, and ––

 

“––And this is Liam, Zayn’s boyfriend.” And fuck, these are Louis’ friends, he should be introducing them, but he can’t even bring himself to open his mouth, doesn’t trust himself, and he definitely doesn’t trust his voice.

 

“It’s nice to meet you,” has Harry’s voice been this deep the whole time? Or has he really just not heard him speak much? “All of you.” The tone of his voice changes, it drops, and his gaze flutters in Louis’ direction pointedly. Somehow, Louis maintains his composure, and he doesn’t even whimper a little bit.

 

“You know me,” is all he manages in response.

 

“I know Tiny.”

 

The voice that speaks isn’t his own, but Zayn’s, “That’s him. I picked that name out,” he smiles fondly.

 

“Right, well, now I know Louis.” When Harry says his name for the first time, Louis decides in that moment that it’s all he wants to hear for the rest of the life. Harry’s lips curling around the syllables like melted butter, his lips pretty and pink and shiny, and Louis wants to kiss his name right out of his mouth. 

 

“Hello, Harry,” he wants so desperately to keep it light. 

 

“What do you drink?” 

 

Suddenly, everything he knows about alcohol is gone. What  _ does _ he drink? The drink Harry has just finished and taken the first sip from looks good. It’s bright red, donned with cranberries and limes. “That,” he speaks carefully, pointing at the drink on the counter. “What you’re drinking. I want that.”

 

Harry nods, but doesn’t make another drink, instead, he pushes the cup across the bar to Louis.

 

He leans against the counter and takes the cup in his hand, tentatively taking a drink. It’s sweet, and it’s good. Like, it’s really good. If he had any more alcohol running through him, he’d probably have moaned at the taste.

 

“‘S it good?” Harry is so quiet, so unsure, when he speaks that he almost misses the question.

 

“It’s great, actually,” he nods. Normally, he’d joke around, tell him it’s awful, but he can’t bring himself to do it. It’s worth it when Harry smiles, all teeth and dimples and bright eyes, and, God, Louis is fucked.

 

His gaze falls away from the crinkly corners of his eyes and straight down to his pink, pink, pink lips. His lips that are moving. He’s talking. Shit.

 

“–– so anyway, I like to have the drinks practiced for when I go to work. Good drinks mean happy customers which means good tips which means happy Harry.” 

 

“Can’t imagine anyone would be unhappy with your drinks if they all taste like this.” He finishes the drink off quicker than he’d like, but it’s just… It’s good. He needs a beer, or five.

 

Except he’d just had the drink, and that was –– Wait, what was that?

 

“Hey, what was in that?”

 

“Moscato, prosecco, and vodka,” Harry says slowly, like he’s being careful with the placement of the letters.

 

Louis tries to remember that saying, how does it go again? Beer before liquor… Liquor before beer… Ah, well, no matter anyway, he’ll be sick regardless.

 

“I’m going to find a beer,” He murmurs, needing to walk away before he does something stupid, like keep talking, or something worse. He doesn’t stay to see Harry’s reaction.

 

-

 

Louis is shirtless on his kitchen table. 

 

He’s hanging off of Nick –– at least he thinks it’s Nick –– with some fruity thing he’d managed to mix together in his hand when he sees it.

 

There, on his own kitchen table, is Louis, pressed flat up against the wood, with Niall hovering over him. Suddenly, it’s like he’s outside of his own body watching the scene from above.

 

Niall catches his eye for a moment, and the fucker sends him a shit eating grin. 

 

Asshole.

 

Nick is holding onto him, he figures, because otherwise he’d probably be on the ground, full on alligator-tears crying, throwing some kind of temper tantrum like Eve.

 

It’s all fine.

 

Harry might actually die right here in his apartment if he has to watch Niall drink tequila out of Louis’ collarbones. 

 

It’s all in slow motion when he’s pouting the salt in a line up his stomach, and motions for Louis to open his mouth.

 

Like it’s second nature, he does.

 

He just opens his mouth and stares up at Niall and yeah. Yes. He might cry.

 

Nick might be speaking to him, but Harry doesn’t know for sure because all he can hear is his internal tears.

 

The worst part of it all is when Niall climbs down the table to lick up the salt line that goes from the hem of his leggings up to the dip between his collarbones, and he never looks in Harry’s direction.

 

He almost looks away,  _ almost _ , when Niall turns his gaze towards Harry, and he fucking slurps the tequila out of Louis’ collarbones and Harry is going to kill him.

 

Or himself. Whatever. Same difference, at this point.

 

And what the fuck is Nick good for? He’s just holding him here, letting him watch his entire life burn down before him.

 

“Harry,” Nick speaks. Like a dog, kind of, Harry thinks, when he least wants to hear him.

 

“Shut up.”

 

Niall will be lucky to see his twenty fifth birthday if Harry has anything to do with it, because just then, as he’s almost forgiven him for licking tequila off of Louis’ body, he leans down in a practiced swoop, and takes the lime from Louis’ mouth into his own.

 

Turtle shell. Better than wings. He should have gone as the fucking Christmas Turtle.

 

“Where are you going?” Nick’s voice hits his ears before he even realizes he’s trying to get away, but he’s on a mission of some kind, dammit, and Grimshaw will not be stopping him. Not today.

 

“I’m going to take a shot.”

 

“I can go get you one,” his words come out quick, like he’s trying to stop Harry from leaving. Oh well. Nick is boring.

 

“I’m going to go take a shot,” He repeats, firm in his tone, “Off of his body.”

 

And if Nick protests, Harry doesn’t hear it or care to hear it. Because first, he is going to tell Niall to piss off, and then he is going to kiss tequila off of Louis’ body. 

 

“Move,” his words, or word, is directed at Niall, but he’s staring right down at Louis. He nudges Niall with his elbow, but he misses him and stumbles over onto the table. Right. Okay. Just… One leg at a time. 

 

He might not have fully thought this through because when he finally situates himself on top of Louis, he’s met with shocked, wide eyes. There’s nothing he can do about it now, he figures, because Harry is nothing if not committed to making a fool out of himself.

 

He’s not an ass, though, and he knows boundaries, so he pauses, taking in Louis’ features. “Is this okay?” His voice is soft, quiet, a stark contrast to the noise around them. He settles his bum down on Louis’ hips. 

 

“Yeah, it’s good,” Louis responds, and if Harry’s not completely out of his mind, he thinks he’s a bit breathless. Which is a good sign, probably. Hopefully.

 

“Where do you want it?” He nods in the direction of what he hopes is the tequila bottle. 

 

“Um…” Louis pauses, giving Harry time to really look at him. And, sure he’s drunk, but he will gladly admit to this sober –– Louis is easily the most beautiful person he’s ever seen. Elf ears and all. “Wherever you want it.”

 

And that… That’s a lot of leeway. Wherever sounds a lot like whatever and what Harry really wants is to suck Louis dry on his kitchen table in front of all the people he knows. But, like, boundaries and stuff, whatever, semantics.

 

So, he settles for a half-assed, “Everywhere,” and reaches for the bottle.

 

When he comes back to Louis, his blue eyes are dark, and Harry really can’t make this up.

 

Louis’ pupils have doubled in size, tripled even, maybe, and there’s a familiar warmth in Harry’s stomach, and this is a lot. He wants to say it’s because he’s not been fucked in months, but really, it’s Louis. He’s drunk. Not stupid.

 

Because the next logical thing to do is get the salt, Harry forgets about it. He skips straight to pouring the tequila into the hollows of his collarbones and then his belly button for good measure.

 

“Um, Harry?” Comes Louis’ voice, soft and careful, but there’s a smile hiding behind his words.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“You forgot the salt. And the lime.”

 

Oh.

 

He makes quick work of pouring the salt in a line up his stomach, from the tip of his belly button to just below his neck. He needs to focus on the task at hand, but his jeans are growing impossibly tighter with each passing second, and the last few weeks have truly been something out of a bad film.

 

He keeps his eyes trained on Louis, never once looking away, not even when he presses a kiss to either of his hip bones (for good measure, maybe Niall missed something). 

 

Not the time to think about Niall.

 

His arm ghosts over the front of Louis’ leggings and  _ oh _ . Oh. Okay. So. He’s not alone in this, then.

 

* * *

 

Louis has never been more turned on in his life. Like, never. Not once. Not a single time.

 

And there is Harry, looking up at him through his eyelashes, and he could come in his leggings just from the sight of him, but he’s a grown ass man. He’s not sixteen anymore, so. None of that.

 

He’s trying to count his breathing as Harry goes to lick the tequila out of his belly button, but he’s no longer in control of his body because the second he feels Harry’s mouth on his skin, he whimpers. Any and all efforts to remain unaffected have gone out the window at that, because Harry catches the noise, and his eyes shoot wide open.

 

His pupils are blown, and his cheeks are flushed, and Louis is somewhere in Heaven.

 

When Harry noses his way up Louis’ chest, his heart is beating so hard he’s sure that the gods can hear it. He wiggles against the table, his hands balling into fists at his sides. 

 

The room is loud, and there are people around them, but Louis can’t really be bothered by it, not really. There is the fleeting thought of a bedroom probably existing somewhere in this flat, but he’s getting ahead of himself. And there’s tequila in his collarbones, so he won’t be moving anywhere for as long as it takes Harry to deal with the situation at hand.

 

“Here,” Harry is holding the lime above Louis’ head, and he had completely forgotten about that. He haphazardly takes the lime from his fingers, but before he can put it in his mouth, Harry’s pushing two of his fingers against his lips. The momentary shock is worth it when Harry lets out the filthiest moan he’s ever heard when Louis closes his mouth around his fingers and hollows his cheeks (for flair, obviously).

 

He moves his head back to get Harry’s fingers out of his mouth, and he places the lime between his lips.

 

They never break their gaze until Harry’s head is hidden. He licks the last of the tequila off of his skin, crawling his way up to Louis’ mouth, and slowly,  _ painfully _ slowly, taking the lime from between his lips. He sits up, then, and Louis watches helplessly as he tips his head back and swallows the drink, biting into the lime. His neck is long, and it’s exposed, and Louis wants to kiss him, wants to leave pretty purple bruises down his neck and across his collarbones and ––

 

“Are you really an elf?”

 

What the fuck? Is he… Is he really an elf? Like, are these ears real? Does he wear this outfit because he thinks it looks nice? Is his dad Santa Claus himself? Was he fucking born in the North Pole? Does he make toys for a living? Is his paycheck room and board at the fucking Motel 6 in the Arctic?

 

“Are you really an angel?”

 

Good one. Very smooth.

 

But then Harry giggles. He fucking giggles. “Do you like my wings?”

 

“They’re pretty.” 

 

Christ. He doesn’t know how to form a sentence anymore.

 

“You’re pretty,” Harry says around a smile. He’s leaning back down, and he brings a hand up to cup Louis’ cheek. “Come tell me about the North Pole in my bedroom.”

 

That is definitely an invitation that Louis can’t say no to.

 

He also can’t say yes. 

 

He can’t open his mouth.

 

So he nods.

 

The next thing he knows is that Harry is carrying him, and they’re bouncing down the hallway to what Louis can only assume is his bedroom.

 

“Shouldn’t we be flying if you’re an angel?”

 

“Not all things with wings can fly, Louis. Don’t play into stereotypes.”

 

Maybe he shouldn’t laugh, but Harry sounds so serious that it’s hard not to. “Sorry, sorry, you’re right.”

 

His hands find their way around Harry without his permission, and he tucks his head into his neck. It’s probably only seconds, but it feels like minutes before Harry sets him down on the edge of the bed, and he’s grinning at him like a child.

 

“Tell me about the North Pole.”

 

“Tell me about Heaven.”

 

“Do you know Santa?”

 

“Do you know God?”

 

“Come on.  _ Please _ . Do you know him?” He’s so excited, and like, Louis can go along with this.

 

“Yeah, you wanna know a secret?” He scoots back on the bed, and he holds his hands out in front of him, motioning for Harry to come with.

 

He does. He climbs on the bed, carefully, like he’s trying to remember where his legs are, and then he nods, quick and excited. “Please?”

 

“We elves that live on the outside?” Harry nods again. “We’re like, insiders. He asks us who’s been nice. And especially wants to know who’s been naughty.”

 

“Oh,” he says thoughtfully, nodding still. “Of course. I think I’ve been pretty nice.”

 

“Do you?” Louis’ eyebrows quirk up, and a smirk tugs at his lips. “Because I don’t think what you did out there would exactly qualify as nice.”

 

Harry’s mouth falls into a comical ‘O’ shape. “You… It was nice. You… You, um. You liked it. Right? So, so, um. So if you liked it, then it was nice. Not naughty.”

 

“Don’t really think it was fair of you. Do you think it was?”

 

“I–– no. Maybe it wasn’t.” He says it quietly like he’s having some sort of realization.

 

“You do know there were people watching us, yeah?”

 

“Yes. I do know that.”

 

Louis hums distractedly, resting his head against the headboard. He opens his mouth to speak, but Harry beats him to it.

 

“If I finish you off, will I still be naughty?” 

 

“You––”

 

“Because I don’t want to be a naughty angel.”

 

“You’re––”

 

“Wanna be good for you.”

 

Louis’ head is spinning, and he can’t process his thoughts, if there even are any in his brain, because Harry is crawling down his chest, thumbing at the waistband of his leggings. Even if he had something he wanted to say, the words wouldn’t come out, because before he can even think of a response, Harry is palming at the front of his leggings.   
  
“Do you want to take those off?”

 

Harry nods, eagerly, and wiggles around on top of Louis’ lap, lifting himself up so that he can tug at his leggings. His eyes go wide when he realizes Louis’ not wearing anything under the leggings, and he lets out a little gasp at the sight.

 

Louis has never been more turned on in his life. Funny how that seems to be the theme of his evening.

 

Harry’s mouth is on his collarbones in the blink of an eye. Louis is dizzy with want.

 

He tilts his head back into the pillow as Harry kisses at his skin, his tongue ghosting over the little bruises that will surely be there in the morning.

 

“Harry, would you ––”

 

He can’t finish his sentence because Harry’s hand wraps around the base of his cock. Christ, Harry’s hands are huge. It’s not like he hadn’t realized that before, or maybe he hadn’t, but,  _ fuck _ .

 

“This okay?” He runs his fingers against the underside of Louis’cock, and when Louis nods, he starts to move his hand painstakingly slowly.

 

Louis hips, against his own accord, rock up into Harry’s hand, and it’s too much and not enough all at the same time.

 

Harry brings his free hand up to one of Louis’ nipples, and he twists it between his fingers. He’s about to ask for more when Harry pulls his hand off of him all together and sits up abruptly.

 

“Can I suck you off?”

 

_ Oh _ .

 

“Oh,” he’s shocked silent for a moment, briefly wonders if this is a good idea, but doesn’t care, and decides in that moment that this will not be the last time he’s here. “Yeah, yes, please do that.”

 

He’s kissing down his chest, looking up at him through thick eyelashes, and it’s a blessing that he doesn’t come on the spot.

 

It’s an even bigger blessing when Harry wraps his lips around the head of Louis’ cock. He moans low in his throat, and moves to buck his hips, but Harry’s hand is on his hip pushing him back down into the mattress, and like. Okay. That’s fine. That is good.

 

Harry sinks down and takes Louis in his mouth, all the way down until his nose is brushing the skin of Louis’ stomach. He moans around him sending a shock up Louis’ spine, reverberating through his mind and sending a silent moan right out of his lips. It’s obscene, the way Harry is moving his head with such attentiveness, his eyes wide and pupils blown, skin flushed pink from his cheeks down to his chest. It’s then that Louis realizes he’s still clothed in his white shirt and jeans.

 

And his wings. And his halo.

  
Fuck.

 

He’s about to tell him to take them off, but then Harry swirls his tongue like something magical, and his hand cups Louis’ balls, and he rolls them around, hollowing his cheeks around his cock, breathing hot and heavy out of his nose.

 

He’s pathetically close already, doesn’t want to come yet, but then he feels Harry, beautiful, fully clothed Harry, rocking his hips down against Louis’ bare thighs, and that’s  _ a lot _ . 

 

“I’m close, Harry,” he speaks out into the bedroom, his voice low and breathy, cut off at the end by a groan. It’s just –– Harry’s mouth, it’s fucking magical.

 

He nods, bobbing his head sinfully, his cheeks hollowed and motions gaining speed, like he wants Louis to come.

 

Christ. He does. He wants Louis to come, he looks eager, desperate, almost.

 

“Do you –– Should I warn you?”

 

Harry can only shake his head, look up at him again with glossy eyes, and sink down, all wet heat around him. Louis can’t fight it anymore when he feels Harry’s hips stuttering, feels him riding out his orgasm  _ against his leg _ , and he spills into his mouth, coming with a shaky moan.

 

“You just––” He doesn’t finish his sentence because Harry sits up, wipes the drops of come off of his lips, and licks his fingers clean. And never takes his eyes off of Louis.

 

“Hmm?” His eyes are spacey, floaty, and Louis’ eyes trail down his chest, the wet spot in Harry’s jeans painfully obvious.

 

“Christ, that was… You’re amazing,” he melts into the mattress, making grabby hands at Harry, suddenly feeling ten times more sober. “We should get you in some clean clothes, though.”

 

He doesn’t want to. Doesn’t want to get him out of his wings, but he can’t imagine his pants or his jeans are very comfortable what with how sticky they must be. So, he helps Harry out of his clothes (and wings, unfortunately), and helps him into a clean pair of pants. He’s far more exposed than Harry is now, still stripped of his shirt from earlier in the evening, his leggings too hot to put back on, so the taller boy offers him a (fairly large and long) pair of sweats. He changes into them quickly before watching Harry settle back into bed.

 

Hopefully it won’t be too obvious when he leaves Harry’s room in his sweats.

 

Louis doesn’t  _ want _ to leave, though he knows he’ll have to eventually. He doesn’t work tomorrow, but Zayn does, so he’ll have to make sure they both make it home.

 

Harry looks exhausted, though, and Louis knows Zayn needs help getting in the apartment. (They broke the handle a few months back and considering their lack of sobriety, neither of the two would be able to open it on their own).

 

He turns to walk out of the door, flashing a sweet smile in Harry’s direction. “Hey.”

 

“Hi?”

 

“For what it’s worth, you’ll definitely be on the nice list now.”

 

* * *

 

 

Not unexpectedly, it’s cold when he and Eve leave Gemma’s flat on Monday morning. Harry hasn’t seen Louis, or anyone really, since Friday night, and he’s a bit frustrated. So, he and Eve have planned a trip to the mall. To get Starbucks from Niall. But, on the way, he stops at a flower shop, picking up a dozen red roses (he loves a good cliche). 

 

The walk to the mall is brisk, and Eve’s teeth are chattering so hard when they finally get inside, they have no choice but to actually stop at Starbucks like he had pretended he was actually going to do.

 

Niall hands them two hot chocolates, and he flashes Harry a knowing smile. “Who’re the flowers for, then?”

 

“Tiny,” he nods his head back toward the Village just outside of the Starbucks.

 

“Called it.”

 

“You did not.”

 

“In me head I did.”

 

With a few words of encouragement (from both Niall and Eve), Harry is off to the Village. Eve walks beside him, holding her hot chocolate with both hands, and Harry has the flowers in one hand and the hot chocolate in another.

 

He sees him before he sees anything else.

 

Even from afar, he’s all bright smiles and loud laughter. He’s a lot like the feeling you get when it snows for the first time in the season, Harry thinks. It’s happy, and it’s exciting, and it’s comforting. 

 

He does his best to not seem nervous when he approaches him, and Eve climbs up on her tippy toes.

 

“My Uncle Hazza wants to take you on a date,” She proclaims loud and proud before Harry can even open his mouth.

 

Luckily, the world doesn’t hate him, and Louis just grins.

 

“Me? He wants to take me, Tiny the Elf on a date?”

 

“Yes,” she nods, completely sure of herself.

 

When Louis meets Harry’s eyes, he’s left breathless. Of course he’s known how blue they are, but like this, all happy and soft, they’re brighter than anything he’s ever seen. 

 

“Well, I’d like to take Louis out on a date, but Tiny the Elf caught my attention, too, so…” He trails off, bringing the roses forward, holding them out for Louis.

 

He studies the flowers closely, humming thoughtfully. “Well, I prefer carnations,” he teases, “But Louis likes roses.”

 

Harry smiles, then, bashful and blissful and happy. “Is that a yes?”

 

“I get off at seven.”

 

“Tonight?”

 

“You want to be on the nice list, yeah?”

 

“Of course. I’ll be here at seven sharp. You’ll introduce me to Santa?”

 

“Please leave before I change Louis’ mind for him.”

 

Harry feigns offence, “You wouldn’t.”

 

“I wouldn’t, but go, please, distracting elves from their work won’t help you make the nice list.”

 

Harry blows him a kiss, to which Eve follows suit, and Louis winks at them both, sending them on their way.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading! please leave comments, they're greatly appreciated :)
> 
> find me on tumblr @ sugarploum.tumblr.com if you wanna chat!


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